Deadly Mystery
by Princess Chocolatier
Summary: Jon and Ponch are hot on the trail of a mysterious, elusive gang who is kidnapping and brutally murdering CHP Officers!
1. Chapter 1

CHiPs (c) 1977 Rick Rosner. All characters are property of MGM. No profit intended.

Deadly Mystery

The two police motorcycles sailed down the freeway at a feverish pace, hotly pursuing a mysterious speeder in a 1977 royal blue Chevy Malibu Classic. They could tell the driver was male from the build, but nothing else.  
"L.A. 15-7Mary 3 and 4 pursuing a 1977 Royal Blue Chevrolet Malibu Classic westbound on the Hollywood Freeway, license number Sam-Thomas-Adam-David 220," said Officer Jon Baker through the police radio on his motorcycle.  
"10-4, 7 Mary 3", answered the dispatcher through the radio. The two motorcycles roared away, sirens blaring, signaling the end for this foolish soul, whoever he happened to be.

Jon's partner, Frank Poncherello, otherwise known as Ponch, was not at all amused. He managed to pull close to the driver's side of the Chevy, as it was in the furthest right lane, with Jon not too far behind. The eyes of Ponch and the motorist locked. The slightly unshaven Caucasian male, long unkempt hair and dark features, grinned a poisonous grin to the well-kempt Hispanic officer. "Hi, Poncherello!" he called out in a mocking voice. The thoughts raced through Ponch's mind in a split second.

::Who is this guy? Where did he come from? Did we bust him before? How did he know my name?::

No time for questions. "Pull over!" Ponch shouted. "Now!"

The driver was much too giddy. He was absolutely thrilled that the duo were following him; he wanted them to. Unfortunately, he was so overconfident he wasn't thinking straight. Thinking he could change one more lane, he started to do so...

"Ponch!" Yelled Jon, not too far behind. "Look out! He's gonna crash!"

Ponch backed off and joined his companion, and not a moment too soon. All too easily, the Chevy crashed into the nearby railing and lost control, violently twisting and turning as it crashed. Jon and Ponch stopped and dismounted, hurrying to the wreck, which had somehow managed to topple on its right side. The police officers looked in to find that though the driver and his steering wheel, windshield, and front seat were soaked in blood, he was still breathing. "We don't have much time, Ponch. Call it in," insisited the blonde, tanned companion. Two squad cars came sailing by into the scene, one driver emerging, a young brown-haired caucasian, the other african-american, from his.

"What do we have here, Jon?" asked the brown-haired man.

"Baricza! Thank God! We've got some creep who practically smashed himself into hamburger."

The paramedics hurried to assist, as they carved the wreck with the Jaws Of Life, rescuing the dazed driver, he was immediately attended to, blood cleaned up as much as possible and wounds and injuries dressed. He lay in the bed, about to be loaded into the ambulance. Jon and Ponch faced his grin, both shocked, bewildered and bemused. "Just what kind of Godawful scheme were you trying to pull back there?!" exclaimed Jon. The driver only eyed him and spoke in a weak, raspy voice. "Officer...Jon...Baker..." Then Ponch. "Officer...Frank...Poncherello... Ghoul... is...coming...you're...both...next..." he concluded as he closed his eyes for the final time, his face concealed by the orange blanket.

Jon, Ponch and Fritz, the african-american, all more bewildered than ever, stood by the wreck as Baricza directed traffic. "What on earth was that?" asked Jon. "We busted him before, I take it." "I don't think so," answered Ponch. "I know I've never seen him before." "Who is he?" asked Fritz. "How did he know you two? And who the heck is this 'Ghoul'?"

A moaning sound came from the half open trunk. Jon and Ponch hurried to open it, and much to their dismay, they had pulled out another officer such as they, a green-eyed redheaded female, bound and gagged, also covered in blood. She was sans holster and died upon being rescued. "Jon...it's Chloe O'Brien, the officer from the West division who's been missing for two months!" exclaimed Ponch.

The patches on her side were the same as those of Jon, Ponch and Fritz, and said the same thing...

California Highway Patrol. 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The next day was emotionally draining for Jon, Ponch, Baricza and Fritz. They were clad in their funeral uniforms of brown and forest green as well as several other officers from O'Brien's division, as the strains of the song no police officer ever wants to hear soared upon the air by bagpipe, "Amazing Grace". As they fired their salute into the air in the midst of mourning friends and family, Jon, particularly, was filled with questions that had no answers, something that he hated experiencing. How was O'Brien mysteriously abducted in the first place? Who was the gang that killed her by beating her to death, it was later found out, according to the autopsy, with her own baton? Who was the driver of the Malibu, and where was he taking her to? Who was this mysterious "Ghoul?"

The day after that, Jon and Ponch, usually talkative at briefing, didn't say a word to each other, yet their silence spoke volumes to each other. Deep inside the center of their hearts, brave and courageous though they were, they were frightened. After all, the mysterious driver, whom they'd never met before, said they were "next". Who knew what fate had in store? Finally, when the last officer entered the briefing room, an older, stern-looking man in uniform entered. Sergeant Joseph Getraer stood at his podium. "Good morning," he said. "Not much in the way of very positive news today, but we nevertheless have something hot on the murder of CHP Officer Chloe O'Brien. According to LAPD's best detectives, she was driving along the San Diego freeway on April fourth at approximately 2:00 in the afternoon. She came across a speeder riding a 1976 red and white Honda dirtbike, license number Roger-Sam-Adam 2429. A rag filled with choloroform was found near her car as was her holster, LAPD is still trying to trace the fingerprints on the rag. One can easily assume whoever the driver was of the bike had abducted her using the chloroform, then stripped her of her holster. We have reason to believe their may have been more than one abductor, though we've only begun this case. The bike, even more mysteriously, was found burnt to a crisp later on down the road at approximately 3:00 am. Apparently to try and get rid of the evidence; we're still trying to trace the owner of the bike, whose plate was actually a Montana state plate. According to the autopsy of O'Brien, there were burns from a lighter, knife marks, and marks from what looks like a rattan cane. Apparently, she was tortured before her demise."

"This killer of this officer," Getraer continued, "and this elusive 'Ghoul' he works with are new on the crime scene. This particular driver of that blue Malibu Classic that Ofiicers Baker and Poncherello attempted to apprehend has a name. William Orly. He was a worker at a local gas station. Beforehand, he lived in Pennsylvania. His father and mother, since his childhood, had apparently built up his dark history, a history of very violent physical and sexual abuse against him ever since the age of three. Surprisingly, his father was a police officer, noted in his force as, supposedly, one of the best of the best, ironically enough. At seventeen he was taken to his aunt's house to live and his parents put in jail, but he nevertheless turned to crime. Graffiti, robbing convenience stores, mugging women with purses. He has quite a rap sheet in Pennsylvania, and at eighteen was eventually sent to a reform school in California, where he lived with his grandparents after his aunt sent him there, apparently having had enough of him. No particular rap sheet in California before the O'Brien murder, in California, this was his first and last crime. Nothing else has been found as of yet, leaving CHP and LAPD baffled, but we'll find this 'Ghoul' scumbag in time, I promise."

Little did Getraer or the rest of CHP Central realize, this gruesome beguine was only beginning...

Jon and Ponch stepped out of the briefing room with the other officers, preparing to go on their beats, when Ponch excused himself to the men's restroom. "A man's got to fix his hair properly before meeting the public!" he laughed, always livening things up for his partner with his sense of humor. Two seconds after he entered, he yelled in terror, "Jon!" Jon immediately stormed in to find a terrified Ponch looking inside one of the open stalls. An officer, Officer Brian Richardson of CHP Northwest, sans holster, was lying inside, wrists and ankles bound by duct tape. He had apparently suffered death by six fresh gunshot wounds, three to the chest, two to the stomach, one right between the eyes. Getraer, Baricza, Fritz and a few other male officers hurried in and looked in horror. More questions ran through their minds. How did the killers get in to Central without anyone seeing, and with a freshly shot body? Why would the killer or killers bring a slain officer here, to Central, and from far away? How did they kill the officer without anyone noticing?

To make matters worse, being that the officer had apparently lost a lot of blood which was all over the floor, scribbled right in front of him in that blood was something that particularly gave Jon chills down his spine.

Jon and Ponch are next! Amongst a million others...

"Sweet Jesus," muttered Getraer under his breath.

God have mercy on us all, thought Baricza.

Jon and Ponch, once again, were much too stunned to speak. 


	3. Chapter 3

Deadly Mystery

Chapter 3

CSI came quickly to investigate the scene as did LAPD and CHP from Richardson's division. "My God, Richardson was supposed to come in this morning!" exclaimed a shocked and deeply overwhelmed Sgt. Norman Barlow, Richardson's sergeant. "How could they catch him in his uniform before work, shoot him up, and then somehow drag him into another division's restroom without anyone noticing? Let alone with all the blood? The blood is practically a dead giveaway, almost!" "This isn't blood, believe it or not," answered Sabrina Jordan, a member of the CSI. "It's actually red food coloring." "Red food coloring?!" Exclaimed an exasperated Getraer. "Apparently for dramatic effect," she answered. "The shots taken to his body aren't quite that fresh, but from the looks of things, they did happen this morning. The red food coloring was used to dress the poor soul up, so to speak, then scare the living daylights out of Baker and Poncherello." Tell me about it, thought a frightened Jon. "We'll have to send the rest to Forensics. We've only got three more samples to speak of, no hair or fingerprints, but we've got what appears to be something else dripped on his uniform at the left shoulder, and on the badge, too. We've also got what appears to be some sort of seed, a tiny seed, from a fruit, maybe. Then we've got what appears to be something darker than blood or food coloring, definitely something dark red and fresh, from the looks of it, in his hair." "The question is," asked Jon, "Well--there are a lot of questions, I mean-- why would someone drag him all the way to Central, and how, without anyone noticing? And why would someone just target him and O'Brien? Did they know him and her somehow? Or did they just target them at random? Are they after just people--or specifically cops--or specifically the CHP? And why are they targeting me and my partner--" he asked, the intensity in his voice growing, "--why are they after us specifically? And who's this 'Ghoul"  
"We'll have to get back to you on that," said Detective Lauren Ashbury of the LAPD. "As for Orly and how he murdered O'Brien, all we have on that so far is, the Montana dirtbike belongs to one Robert Mitchell of the famed Black Mountain Lion Ranch in Billings, Montana. When LAPD contacted Billings police and asked them to take him in for questioning, when they reached the ranch, he had poisoned himself with arsenic-laced Jagermeister in a standoff." "Hey, Ashbury," called LAPD Detective Robert Agee, "We just recieved word from LAPD at Richardson's house. They found traces of blood in the bathtub, along with some Clorox. Apparently, he was shot in his bathtub, then they tried to get rid of the blood with the bleach and wash it down the drain. We also saw traces of choloroform on Richardson's bed, but nothing else."

Getraer and the other witnessing CHP officers gave looks of exasperation to each other, the ceiling, and the floor.

LAPD Forensics tested everything, from blood samples to uniform samples to hair samples and everything in between. The mysterious seed was off of a strawberry, and from the juices, the seed examined in a microscope, the strawberry was eaten early in the morning. The redness in Richardson's hair, was, no doubt, Shiraz wine by Beringer, and, as fresh as it was, was ingested right when the mysterious killer or killers put Richardson, somehow, in the men's bathroom at Central (but according to the autopsy, not by Richardson, who had ingested only Folgers French Roast coffee with half and half. Traces of chloroform had only one more element in them, Old Spice. More questions, of course, but all involved were determined to find every one of the answers. There seemed to be nothing else in Richardson's house at the time that led to any answers, no hair or blood samples, no signs of struggle, it seemed that his house had been left perfectly immaculate, as if he had never even had breakfast that morning. Finally, the sample from Richardson's left shoulder and badge was tested. One of the forensics agents, Harry Jameson, was a connossieur and noticed it right away...

"Korbel Champagne! I bet my entire life on it!"

At 2:00 pm, an officer at Central slipped into the empty men's locker room and slipped an envelope into Officer Barry Baricza's locker, then slipped out unnoticed. At the end of their particular shift, Baricza, Fritz, Officer Arthur Grossman, Baker and Poncherello milled in to the locker room, and got dressed in their cilivian clothes. Baricza noticed the strange envelope in his locker, nothing written on it, no address, no name... "Hey, what's this?" he asked. Jon and Ponch looked at the note as Barry opened it. It was a simple folded-up sheet of typing paper, which, when unfolded, had typed words that read:

Ghoul is 25 years old.

Caucasian.

Solely targeting California Highway Patrol.

Plan:

Many others to die.

Can't say anymore. F.F. will kill me.

The officers were perplexed. Who put the note in Barry's locker? Ghoul was 25, but what else? Why was he targeting solely CHP officers, let alone anyone at all? And who was this F.F.?

Suddenly, the screams of a man were heard outside the locker room. The officers hurried to find him, only to find him dead in the nearby supply room. It was the officer who had slipped the note in Barry's locker. Officer John Jenkins, 35 years old and an exceptional watercolor artist on his time off, married to a wonderful wife with two children, one not yet born, lay dead in the supply room, a horrid gash torn through his throat.

Getraer, too, hurried to see, then nearly blew a major artery at what he saw. "What in Sam Hill is going on?!" 


	4. Chapter 4

Deadly Mystery

Chapter 4

After the funeral of John Jenkins, which Baker, Poncherello, Baricza, Fritz, Grossman and Getraer had to attend, things began to be a little tougher at Central. Although every officer still attended to their everyday job, every officer, including Getraer, began to fear for his and her life. This evil was still out there, lurking about California, leaving so many questions unanswered. One week after Jenkins' death, Getraer had received more evidence from LAPD concerning O'Brien's earlier death. "The prints of the rag of chloroform used were, in fact, those of vintage 1950's women's leather gloves designed by Givenchy," he explained at briefing. "On the Honda bike were found traces of Old Spice, on the handlebars. O'Brien's radio call said the biker was male, caucasian, about 25 years old. For some odd reason, he had a full scarf covering his hair, a lame attempt, obviously, to prevent hair samples from being taken."

"We also have reason to believe he may be the mysterious 'Ghoul'," Getraer continued, "according to some evidence Officer Baricza found in his locker a week ago, moments before Jenkins died after giving it to him. 'Ghoul' is also, allegedly, a 25 year old caucasian male. His intent--as well as that of his possible accomplices, incluidng one I'll mention in a second--is to kill California Highway Patrol Officers only, no one else. The particular accomplice I want to mention is somebody known to us only by the initials of F.F. One or more of these accomplices has a taste for Korbel Extra Dry Champagne as well as Shiraz from Beringer, and maybe strawberries. Whoever killed O'Brien and Richardson also has a taste for Old Spice. Unfortunately, nothing more can be said at the moment, but at the very least, we've got a few answers to some of our great multitude of questions. I do realize many of you, as well as all CHP Officers, are greatly fearing for your lives. What I can tell you is, stay brave in heart and stay strong. The long arm of the law is just one thing that these criminals will never elude. We'll find them. I promise."

"Boy, whoever's doing this is doing a really lame job of covering up their tracks," said Ponch as he and Jon cruised the San Diego freeway, southbound, on patrol. "Champagne, Shiraz wine, Old Spice, chloroform, strawberries..."

"Yeah," replied Jon, "I mean, what did the killer or killers do, toast Richardson's death before they shot him? Or maybe after they did? I mean, how sick can you get?"

"One of the killers is obviously a woman," said Ponch. "Givenchy gloves and all..."

"Not neccessarily," replied Jon. "Just someone covering their tracks, or trying to, anyhow."

"Where, exactly, was O'Brien taken when they pounded her to death, that's what I want to know," said Ponch.

"And how did they chloroform Richardson with no evidence of a struggle, like he never left a trace of himself, or even any early morning breakfast behind? You know, I talked to an Officer Chisholm from Richardson's division, when I met him at the Burger House you and I ate at last Friday..."

"Huh?"

"While you were in the bathroom, you know, doing your hair and all," said Jon. "He said Richardson was allergic to strawberries..."

"Man, this is getting wierder and wierder," said Ponch. "The killers eating strawberries, drinking wine and champagne at the death of an officer. Obviously they've really got this thing against the CHP. But why?"

Meanwhile, Grossman was patrolling the Ventura Freeway, traveling north on his own motorcycle. He decided to stop for gas at a Chevron station. When he went in to pay for his gasoline, when he came out again, he found a note attached to his motor, Scotch taped on one of his saddlebags. Puzzled, he unfolded the typing paper, where a message was once again typed about the whole issue at hand:

F.F. knows Baker and Poncherello personally.

Officer Melanie Bunton of CHP Central has died. She chased F.F. to West Ventura Mall. Body can be found somewhere by May Company.

More than one killer involved. I've never killed any officer yet, but I'm about to die.

Sorry for all the trouble this has caused.

He looked to see two black high heels by his feet. He picked them up, too puzzled to ask why...

In the distance, he saw a woman hurrying down the street in a tiny black dress with elbow-length black gloves, her bright blond hair pinned up in a glamorous upsweep. She looked flustered...

"Hey!" he called out.

He sped after her. She ran down the street, then turned down to an alley behind a strip mall practically a hop, skip and jump away, the only way to, at least, keep up the chase until she could lose him. She ran behind an ice cream parlor, surrounded by many crates. She disappeared behind them. Grossman dismounted, took out the high heels from his saddlebag, and hurried after her. He cornered her quickly amongst the crates. "Hold it right there!" he snapped. She did so with a frightened look. He playfully waved the heels at her. "Lose something?"

Suddenly, a puff of air from the right side, from amongst the stack of crates there, made her react. She held her neck at the right side as a tiny dart penetrated, then keeled over. Grossman caught her as she fell. She reached out to him and spoke only a few words before she died.

F...F's... father... was..a CHP...molest...gang...1955...hates...chippies...

"What? What? What does that mean? No! No. Don't--!"

But it was too late.

He noticed that the woman's dress and shoes, later, were by Givenchy...

Bunton's body was later found in the alley behind the May Company at West Ventura Mall. No weapon could be found, yet according to LAPD detectives, and what they told Grossman, it seemed a knife had somehow been plunged, literally, right into her heart. 


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

LAPD and CHP Central were once again at the two crime scenes. Grossman had told LAPD detectives everything he knew about what he'd experienced. The detectives saw that the dart was, interestingly enough, a makeshift dart carved out of wood, which was laced with arsenic. The woman was identified by her driver's license, 31-year-old Naomi Halliwell, a former employee for a Macy's in the Orange Blossom Mall in a part of Los Angeles near Raintree, Jon's apartment complex. She started there in April 1972 and quit in January 1977, and no one had seen her since. Supposedly, she was clean and had never gotten involved in any crime, or even so much as a traffic violation, before this whole affair started.

At the scene of the other crime, witnesses were asked questions. Several people said they saw Bunton, in her patrol car, chasing a 1977 pitch black Jaguar, Washington license plate, license number OCR-1919. According to Bunton's radio call, she had been attacked by the driver in the bathroom of Wang's Chinese Restaurant, suspecting that the attacker had come in through the window. She described the assailant as female, 5' 9", wearing black gloves, a black high-neck sweater, tight black trousers, white socks, moccassins, a black scarf on the head and another on the nose and mouth, carrying an antique dagger from the Medieval period. Baricza, Jon and Ponch, who had arrived at the scene of the crime moments after it had happened (taking a bit longer to get there because their own assigned highways to patrol were far away), found the sweater, trousers, socks and moccassins in foliage over to the left of the building, including a Ratner's grocery bag. Jon looked at the tag inside the sweater and noticed it was made by Givenchy, as well as the trousers and moccasins.The socks were made by Hanes, designed for women. LAPD Forensics would later check for fingerprints and samples.

Grossman noticed that there was also a wound on the right side of Bunton's neck, a cut not too big to be lethal, but big enough. "I don't know for sure, but my guess is, the killer tried to slit Bunton's throat in the bathroom at Wang's," he said.

"Bunton's one heck of a fighter," added Jon. "She must have gotten out of the killer's grip somehow, then when the killer was seen, Bunton started chasing her."

"We just got word from Mr. Wang," said Stacy Woodhouse, another LAPD Detective. "He didn't see the killer, just heard Bunton screaming. apparently, the killer slipped out the window, and Bunton ran out after her."

"Witnesses say that they saw a 1977 Honda dirtbike casually come out of the alley," added another detective, "carrying a blond male who appeared to be 25. Just a few minutes after they saw the Jaguar speed away. The Jaguar was seen at a car wash after some CHP reported the suspect as disappeared, you know, a typical thing where they wash off all evidence and fingerprints, or at least try. No one has seen it since."

"We'll have to get back to you for more," said Woddhouse.

Jon and Ponch continued back on their patrol. "You know, that Naomi Halliwell was connected with someone I used to know," said Ponch.

"Yeah?"

"A friend of mine back in Poly High. Her name's Melanie Mitchell. Naomi was her best friend since childhood"

"Was this Melanie an old girlfriend of yours?" asked Jon.

"Nope. I tried to make her that way, but she always said I wasn't her type. She happens to be related to that guy in Montana, Robert Mitchell. You know, the guy who owns the ranch, the one who poisoned himself with arsenic in his Jagermeister?"

"Yeah?"

"He was the only relative she had left, after her mother committed suicide years before, for some odd reason, but she never told me much about that."

"Any brothers or sisters?" asked Jon.

"Nope. She was an only child. Kind of a shy, quiet type. Never liked to talk about her past much, except that in the 1950's, her whole family used to live in California, and her father was a CHP in the Southwestern division."

"Maybe LAPD and CHP better have a chitchat with her. She may provide us with a bit of what we need," suggested Jon.

"Nah, just leave everything to me. Get LAPD and CHP involved and she'll get intimidated try to cover herself up. But with a little persuasion, Poncherello style, she just might open up," he said with enthusiasm.

Later on that night, at about 8:00 p.m., Jon was in his apartment, munching on some takeout, trying to figure out the answers to the many questions he had in his mind about the horrible mess of murder incidents that had happened. Suddenly, a few minutes later, he heard some people screaming outside...

"It's a fire!"

"Something's burning!"

"What is it?!"

"Call the fire department"  
"It's a car!"

In the midst of the maelstrom of shouts and screams, he heard the sound of a dirtbike roaring away. Jon hurried to his balcony, and in fact, did see something burning right below on the grass. It appeared to be a car, though he couldn't make out the model. It was ablaze with fire. He immediately called the fire department, who came to put out the fire. Later on that night, Jon, the fire department, CHP and the LAPD loked at the vehicle. It was a 1977 Jaguar, pitch black. Jon looked at the license plate, which was, in fact, a Washington license plate. Its number was OCR-1919.

"The same Jaguar in the Bunton murder!" exclaimed a perplexed Getraer.

Jon later found an envelope about a few yards away, right in front of the first-floor balcony of his friend, Jane Whitaker. The envelope had typewriter font on it and read:

Jon...open it up!!

LAPD warned him sharply not to, believing it may have been a letter bomb. After carefully inspecting it, they opened it up. and it read :

You're next, Baker. Your remains will burn to ashes.

A wave of terror, and chills, flooded over Jon... 


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

LAPD's Forensics team were still in the midst of examining the Bunton murder. There was no doubt that there was an attempt at slitting Bunton's throat, an attempt that failed. No fingerprints of the suspect; the killer was, no doubt, wearing gloves. The only DNA was from Bunton's blood, yet traces of Old Spice could be found, once again, on the Givenchy ensemble the killer was wearing at the time. The scarf that was on her nose and mouth would later be found in the car after it had burned, as well as the one for her hair. Both had burned up enough, so no samples could be taken of hair or otherwise. The gash in Bunton's chest was two inches wide and very deep.

LAPD and CHP, further inspecting the car, had found full cases of Korbel Extra Dry Champagne, as well as White Zinfandel wine by Beringer, in the trunk. The car itself had been torched by several rags that had been soaked in gasoline, eventually leading the car to blow up into a further blaze the minute the fire department had arrived. The fire mixed with the champagne and wine in the trunk, thus blowing it up also the minute LAPD and CHP arrived. Also found in the trunk were cases of burnt-to-death strawberries.

No traces of samples could be found on the creepy message sent to Jon by Forensics. Jon himself only knew that at least one of the killers knew him and Ponch personally, the multiple killers knew him and Ponch, and they had somehow gotten one CHP officer, Jenkins, involved in their plots to kill. Two suspects were women, one a man, and at least one killer had a taste for Old Spice, Givenchy, Champagne, Beringer wine and strawberries. If there was a kidnapping involved--and their usually was--it was usually done by chloroform on the face, then tying up the victim, then murder, which was usually bloody.

Heaven help us, he thought, as he had breakfast the next day--as much as his fearful stomach could bear to digest--and prepared for work.

Later that day, Getraer, who, too, was on patrol, stopped for lunch at a nearby International House Of Pancakes. What am I doing here, he thought exasperatedly to himself, as he could not possibly eat and digest a full entree' from such a place, his stomach as fearful as Jon's. He managed to have a few bites of pancakes, bacon and sausage links-- it was all he could think of at the moment, as distraught as he was-- and received the check. As he did so, a strange figure arrived at his table.

It was a man, a bright-blond caucasian, seemingly about 25, in a white shirt and dark blue jean jacket with matching bell bottom jeans, looking frightened and confused.

"Do you...work... for Central?" he asked in a hushed voice, noticing the California Highway patrol emblems on Getraer's sleeves.

Getraer was puzzled. "Why, yes, I'm the Sergeant. Can I help you?"

The mysterious young man sat down and looked Getraer intently in the eye. He continued to speak in his hushed voice. "I don't have much time. I have a feeling I might die shortly after this..."

"Not on my watch!" Getraer replied sternly. "CHP can protect you."

"No! Not from Funny Face."

"Funny Face? Who is this Funny Face?"

"She's the ringleader of the gang that's killing chippies, man. She wears Old Spice so no one can tell she's a woman, but she messed up in covering up her tracks when she killed Bunton, she just... forgot to completely disguise herself...I guess."

"How do you know all this?" asked a slightly perturbed Getraer, certain this man was in on the crimes.

"There's no time!" the man insisted. "Listen carefully. She sometimes wears her father's CHP uniform, the nameplate is Mitchell. She gets into any CHP division she wants, to look up files of chippies, you know, who they are, what they do, where they live. Sometimes to kill them, the way she did Jenkins."

"And why, exactly, did she kill him?"

"He found out one of her hideouts in the back of an abandoned Chevron station in southern Los Angeles at the corner of Henessey. He saw her slipping in while he was on patrol. He heard her speak her name, what she was going to do as well as her gang of thugs. He hurried, I guess, to his home, the minute she and her gang saw him. He was outnumbered, and must have been spooked enough not to call for backup. He cooked up the note...she was watching from far away...then she changed into her dad's uniform in her car, a pitch black Jag, she knew he would be back on patrol. She told the gang she was going to kill him herself, she followed him back to Central and did it. Orly and her became best friends earlier ago. She persuaded him to help her kill chippies. They nabbed O'Brien out of nowhere, you know? Took her up to another hideout in the hills, an abandoned, ages-old barn from a ranch that was there in, like, the 1800's or something. She likes to kill 'em nice and slow, you know? She's crazy, completely. Chippies gang raped her when she was a kid. She can't stand chippies, never could. She wants to kill them all. You, Baker, Poncherello, everyone of you. Then she's considering making bombs to blow the divisions, the CHP academies...anything to get rid of them all. Just chippies, you know? Not LAPD, no one else. She often takes pictures. She's good at taking them from far off places. She also likes carving wood figurines--"

Suddenly a puff of air from the nearby back door launched a dart, which hit the man on the right side of his neck, making him fall to the floor. People began to scream and worry. A waiter nearby dropped a plate of newly made entrees.

Getraer immediately looked to the back door, only to find it closing without a trace of the assailant. But there was no time to chase or apprehend. He had a victim to attend to...

"Funny Face...wanted me to kill Baker and... Poncherello...would have been my...first kill...she didn't pay me...enough to keep...quiet about...the other... murders...she'll do it...I'm...Ghoul...she was... left a fortune... by her grandmother...a wealthy...ranch owner in...Montana...spends it on... Givenchy...Jaguars..."

Ghoul closed his eyes shortly afterwards, much to Getraer's dismay.

Later on that night, at 10:00, Jon was asleep in his apartment. It had been a rather average night despite the fact that the killers, or "The CHP Slayers", according to the evening news, was still lurking about. Earlier on in the afternoon briefing, Getraer explained what had happened to him in the restaurant, also telling news reporters the same. He and Ponch talked anxiously on the phone, expressing how scared they were about the whole ordeal. Ponch urged him to stay strong, and be extremely careful.

As he lay asleep in bed, at 11:30, he was only vaguely aware that something was pinning down his mouth and nose. He suddenly became fully aware a split second later, and found it to be a rag...soaked...with a wet liquid, full of a sickish-sweet smell.

Chloroform, his mind screamed!

He tried to focus on the figure at the side of his bed, holding the rag upon his nose and mouth, but the darkness concealed the figure's features. 

His muffled screams went unheard...as unconsciousness slowly took over. 


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

When Jon came to again, trying his best to shake off the haziness in his head (which came as a result of the chloroform), he found himself in strange surroundings... He was gagged and strategically bound to a wooden chair inside what appeared to be a section of a K-Mart. He looked about the darkness, having only shrouds of moonlight and streetlight as good vision. The sign hanging atop the ceiling in front of him read "Kitchenware", with a few squared off sections in back of him carrying kitchen items. To his right, on the floor, were scattered black and white photos...

Him walking out of his apartment in civilian clothes.

Baricza eating lunch, in uniform, at a Denny's.

Getraer having a backyard barbecue with his wife, Betty, and son, Timmy

Ponch, in uniform, drinking coffee at another International House Of Pancakes somewhere with Jon.

...Amongst many more of his friends and fellow officers that were similar, including the ones recently slain. To his left, on the floor, were keys, what appeared to be housekeys, lined up in a row, mounted by nails to a wooden board. Much to his horror, each had a label underneath it:

BAKER

PONCHERELLO

GETRAER

JENKINS

O'BRIEN

RICHARDSON

BARICZA

FRITZ

...and many other officers, some he knew personally. And then it hit him. Someone had these keys, at some sort of request--or even for a huge sum of money--duplicated for them at Keyes' Keys, a place that specialized in making keys for someone's house or living quarters, and also those of CHP and LAPD patrol cars, and even file cabinets inside divisions and headquarters. He realized that the key with his name under it must have been used for the killer to get into his own apartment. Apparently, Joe Keyes, the head of the store and only keymaker, had somehow betrayed him and many other officers who trusted in him...

The killers also stalked CHP officers and took pictures. According to the news report, Ghoul, also known as John Cannon, told about how one killer got into every division wearing a CHP uniform, gaining easy access to files, and then, bios of certain officers...! Slowly it was all coming to him, not everything, but just enough for the moment...

Meanwhile, Ponch was busy sleeping in the bed of his motor home within a trailer park. He was--quite rudely--awakened by his phone ringing, its ring muffled by a massive pile of scattered clothes on the floor of his motor home, which usually looked like a phenomenal tornado hit it. He groaned, annoyed, and searched for the telephone, which seemed to ring insistently. "All right, all right, I hear you...", he groaned. He picked up the phone. "Hello?" he groaned again. A frantic male voice answered.

"Poncherello? Your partner's been kidnapped."

Suddenly, Ponch was fully alert. "What?! Who is this?"

"This isn't a joke, man. If you don't believe me, your partner's sure to be dead in the morning. I don't have much time, I'm calling from a pay phone. Funny Face kidnapped him from his apartment. She's got him held in the K-Mart across from the Orange Blossom Mall. If you don't save him, he's gonna die tonight."

"This better not be a crank call, man," said an angry Ponch. "Who are you? What's your name?"

"There's no time!" The still frantic voice insisted. "Come down to the K-Mart across from the Orange Blossom Mall if you ever want to see your partner again! She was stupid enough to leave the front door open..."

The man slammed the reciever down.

Ponch hurried frantically to dress. To take a motor home would slow him down, take too much time, and be too conspicuous. He hurried to borrow a motorcycle from his neighbor two motor homes down, Martin Monahan, explaining the situation. He sped off with bold, feverish determination that his partner would not meet his maker. Never.

Jon was alert to footsteps slowly approaching from the left and behind him. He turned to see a figure in the moonlight. The figure wore a hooded, floor-length, forest green silk cape, concealing his or her body completely. On the figure's nose and mouth was a silk scarf, which appeared to be red, gold and white. The figure wore a black cloth mask over his or her eyes and black leather gloves.

In the figure's hand was a cordless electric knife.

The twin blades of the knife began to whirr. The figure swiftly came behind Jon and grabbed him by the hair. He let out a muffled yell as the blade was held high in the air, then descended very slowly in a curve toward the left side of his neck...

That's it, the figure thought. Tease him a little. Don't kill him right away. Psychologically torture him. Be very, very slow. Drive him absolutely berzerk.

Ponch sped to the K-Mart, and much to his surprise, found the sliding door cracked. How did the killer called Funny Face get into the K-Mart in the first place? He slipped in and took a look around. The distant sound of an electric knife was heard. He turned, and much to his horror, saw his partner in the Kitchenware section, about to be butchered! He hid amongst products, knowing he'd have to be subtle and smooth about the whole affair. If the figure saw him in plain sight...

He slipped around to Home Improvement.

The knife blade came closer to Jon's neck. A chill swept over him as he began to sweat. His breath became quick and labored. He dared not move a muscle.

Ponch slipped smoothly into Toys.

The knife blade came closer. Jon's eyes became wider.

Ponch slowly approached Kitchenware.

The knife blade was ten inches away from Jon's neck. A drop of his sweat touched the blade, he felt it as it flew off the vibrating blades.

Ponch slipped into Kitchenware, behind the sections of assorted knives that the figure was standing in front of. Finally, between two sections, he saw the figure.

The knife blade was one inch away from Jon's neck.

A muffled whimper escaped him.

Ponch grabbed the figure's knife hand and held it right back up into the air, putting his other arm around the figure's waist.

"All right!" he snapped. "You're under arrest!"

Instinctively, the figure stepped to the side. Ponch felt a swift kick of a combat boot, directly to his right ankle, which caved in with a dull crunch.

Ponch yelled in pain, tossing the knife to the left, collapsing in back of an overwhelmed, perplexed Jon.

Ponch held his wounded leg by the shin, the pain excruciating. "Sorry...partner...can't... untie you."

The figure fled out the open front door.  
Ten minutes later, sirens could be heard outside. A familiar figure entered in his civilian clothes.

"Poncherello?"

"Sarge?" he called out.

"Just heard something from a man on a pay phone about an attempted murder. Says he called you, then hopped to another pay phone to call me about what he told you. Got a rude awakening."

"Yeah," laughed Ponch, "and Funny Face made one clean break! Baker would tell you all about it, but he's a little tied up at the moment."

Jon rolled his eyes.

The mysterious caller, a 26 year old man with blond curly hair, a plaid butterfly-collar shirt and medium dark bell-bottom jeans, would later be found dead on the sidewalk near a Chevron station down the street from the mall, a wooden dart in his neck laced with arsenic. 


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

"Oh, for cryin' out loud, this is ridiculous. I'm fine, Sarge!"

"You're a good, strong man, Baker, but still, we've got to make sure you're in absolute tip top shape--emotionally and physically," insisted Getraer as Jon was wheeled into the ambulance on his cot, next to his wounded partner.

"Yeah," insisted Ponch, "Besides, I've got some really hot news about this whole case I want to share with you. And not only that," he smiled, "I need someone to keep me company."

Both were wheeled into Orange Blossom Baptist Hospital, not too far away from the mall.

Meanwhile, two blocks away from the gas station where the mysterious caller was killed, a woman, about 5'9", with long, California blonde hair in a middle part, wearing a tight black dress and high heels, casually walked along, carrying a strange-looking, well-stuffed sack over her shoulder, made of red velvet and gold rope...

Getraer, Baricza, Grossman and Fritz, the four other officers attending the crime scene, followed Baker and Poncherello into the hospital, waiting until they could ask them questions about what happened. Jon talked about how the killer somehow entered his home and chloroformed him. He told about the keys (one of which was obviously used to get into his apartment), the pictures, and the figure with the green cape, mask, and scarf, whom was obviously "Funny Face".

"She held an electric knife in her hand, and next thing you know, The Kid's about to be butchered!" explained a still overwhelmed Jon.

Ponch then explained how he was called, and what he did to come to Jon's rescue. "A painful experience, to say the least!"

"LAPD just identified the caller. Mark Mitchell. He was the nephew of Robert Mitchell, the guy who killed himself with that poisoned Jagermeister awhile ago. He's obviously part of Funny Face's gang. He aided and abetted Baker's kidnapping, then used a car of his, a black '77 Toyota pickup truck, to drive her to where she was going with Baker. It was found in the parking lot of the Orange Blossom Mall, across from the K-Mart. The dart used to kill him is the same type that was used to kill Naomi Halliwell and John Cannon. Hand carved out of wood, laced with arsenic."

Jon was particularly passionate, more than ever in his heart and spirit, about finding Funny Face and whoever else was in on the job, before any other CHP Officers were hurt or killed. Besides, he couldn't bear hospitals. "Sarge--just let me go, okay? I'm fine, it's Ponch you need to worry about. I can't stand hospitals--"

"Oh, no, you don't, Baker. You're going to stay for the night. You're also going to be evaluated by a psychologist in the morning, who has a building across the street--"

"A psychologist?! You know I don't need that, Sarge, I'm not messed up--!"

"Solely to check for possible emotional and psychological trauma," interrupted Grossman, raising an insistent finger.

"Yeah, just to check and see that you're not messed up by this whole thing," insisted Getraer.

Doctor William Ramsay came in and said, with a commanding tone in his voice, "Visitng hours, as of now, are over, gentlemen. Out with all of you. Immediately." The six officers exchanged their goodbyes, including a reluctant Jon. Then, as silence suddenly fell upon the room, he turned to his partner.

"Hey, Ponch?"

"Yeah?"

Jon smiled warmly. "Thanks a lot, buddy."

Ponch smiled back. "That's what friends are for."

Then sleep overtook them at last.

At 4:30 a.m. in the morning, somewhere in the hills near Ventura Highway, Olsen's Antique Store was aflame, the scent of gasoline filling the air. At 5:00 a.m., the nearby Keyes' Keys was also engulfed in flame and gasoline. When the fire department finally put out the flames, the bodies of Steve Olsen found in his store, and Joe Keyes in his, allegedly bound and gagged to chairs. 


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

The morning had passed, with Jon's psychological evaluatior, Dr. Mortensen, saying to Getraer that Baker was perfectly fine and "a good, strong, resilient young man". Yet, much to Baker's disdain, he had to have two months off to "fully recover". Much to Jon and Ponch's dismay (but Getraer's relief), shortly after both had fallen asleep, LAPD sent two officers to give them around-the-clock protection, and six other cars patrolling the entire perimeter of their wing, different officers taking over at different shifts of the day, and acting as bodyguards when Jon and Ponch had to leave their rooms, or when someone on the hospital staff came in, actually frisking them and checking their identifications fully before their entry. Jon and Ponch felt this was like being in prison. Nothing that Jon's particular complaints, unfortunately, could change. Deep down inside, he knew why they were there.

The morning news had shown the two latest catastrophes. Olsen and Keyes had been taken from their homes, according to LAPD, the same way Jon had been taken from his. New fingerprints and hair samples had been taken all over their homes, those of Randy Milner and Terry Monaghan, who had started--or, perhaps, aided and abetted--the fires. Both were found dead in their once dark blue 1977 Datsun pickup, somehow, also burnt up later on after the murders, found in a ditch two miles away from Keye's Keys. There were two bottles in the back seat, Korbel Extra Dry Champagne and a bottle of arsenic, that had also burnt in the fire. Jon and Ponch were overwhelmed and not particularly overjoyed.

"Oh, Ponch, what are we doing here?" Jon asked after Ponch switched off the finished news. "The killer, this...'Funny Face' is still crawling around California, killing like there's no tomorrow, and you and I are locked up here in this immaculate hell, with two guards at the door and more creeping about this place! I--I mean, if anyone should have that, it should be this crazy murderer!"

"Heh heh. I myself have this feeling that the killer's friends are slowly dying away, ratting on her and whatnot. How much do you want to bet Funny Face turned on Milner and Monaghan, because they left their hair and fingerprints all over the place when they took Olsen and Keyes and fried them like fritters?" asked Ponch.

"You know," he continued, "Melanie Mitchell, that friend of mine I was talking about a little while ago, she used to like Audrey Hepburn movies a lot. Said she was a princess at heart, you know? Watching them all the time when they used to come on late at night, or in the middle of the day. Even at the drive-in when her movies were in their heyday. She told me it made her feel kinda classy, you know, elegant. Like she was a princess herself."

"Ponch, what does Audrey Hepburn have to do with any of this mess?" asked a perplexed Jon.

"What I'm saying is, one of them happens to be called 'Funny Face'", answered Ponch

"Really?"

"Yeah", Ponch said, "Audrey Hepburn wore a lot of Givenchy stuff in that. Similar stuff to what this 'Funny Face' wore when she tried to kill you. You know, a green silk cape. Then there was that sweater, trousers and moccassins, Hepburn wore a Givenchy set just like that in the movie. She also wore a Givenchy dress and upswept hair in 'Breakfast At Tiffany's'."

"Is there a point to this, Ponch?" asked a still perplexed Jon.

"Oh, yeah! Melanie Mitchell is related to Robert Mitchell and Mark Mitchell. She loved that movie, 'Funny Face', you know? Said it was her favorite movie. The point is, when I get out of here--you know I've got two and a half months to heal, accoridng to the doctors--this will give me time off to, you know, give her a few discreet inquiries...Poncherello style," he wittily grinned.

"You just might have something there, old buddy," nodded Jon, smiling.

Jon was very carefully released two days later, under careful guard of the LAPD, all the way to his house. "Be very careful," Ponch urged him. Ponch was released--albeit with a wheelchair, much to his dismay, but it was much better than crutches--two days later than that, also under careful guard. "I feel like the President of the U.S.", he laughed as LAPD assisted him home and into his trailer. He later prepared to call Melanie Mitchell, who had left her number to her phone her nearby townhouse, years after their high school graduation, after they had met in a small french cafe'. Ponch was training at the academy at that time, and would have told Jon about her (Jon being the one who encouraged him to train for California Highway Patrol) but he didn't want him to steal her away, she was, after all, good looking and interesting. He had never had the time to call her for a potential date, though, as training had become more important to him at the time. Yet this day just might be the most important day, quite possibly, of his still-threatened life, and that of his equally threatened partner.

"Hello?"

"Melanie Mitchell?"

"Yes?"

"It's me, Frank Poncherello. You know, from Poly High? We were in algebra class together."

"How could I forget Frank Poncherello?" she laughed. "How come you never called me before?"

"Long, long story, Melanie. One I could tell you if we meet somewhere. You know, like The Kabuki House?"

"I tell you over and over, Ponch," she laughed again, "you're not my type."

"No date, mind you, not officially, just to chitchat."

"Okay, Ponch," she finally said, "Name the time and place, and I'll be there." 


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

The Kabuki House was one of the finest Japanese restaurants in Southern California. It was one of those places where one could have their entrees cooked right in front of them, on a table amidst other customers, in a flamboyant show almost nothing could compare to. But Ponch wanted a place that was a little more...private. So he chose a small table in the back, where his discreet inquiries could be heard only by himself and Melanie. Both took a taxi to the restaurant, Melanie volunterring to wheel Ponch in. "Small table for two, please," he told the seater at the front. They sat amidst deep red and blue hues, oriental symbols and carved jade dragons, amongst other things. The scent of sandalwood incense hung in the air. Sake' for two, and the inquiries began...

"I'm really sorry about your ankle and all. I haven't been in touch with you in order to know about all your 'escapades', and I apologize for that, too. What exactly happened?"

Ponch laughed. "Why Melanie, aren't you watching the news like everyone else in the world? Getting caught up on...current events?" 

Melanie laughed nervously. "Oh, no, I don't like the news. They sing songs of blood, gore and death in limitless versions, sin, corruption..."

"I don't blame you for that," he replied with a smile.

"So, you're a CHP now, are you"  
"Yeah. Part of the best of the best, California's finest."

"My dad was a cop...once," she said, bowing her head with a slightly embarrassed look.

"You say that like you're ashamed of it..."

"Well...he did get discharged, you know, booted off the force, neck stuck in the metaphoric noose, so to speak."

Ponch's curiosity grew more intense. "What for? You make it sound like he did something horrible."

"Oh, he did. He did a lot of things that were horrible, he and his friends from the CHP, things...indecent...inhumane...things too horrible for me to describe in public."

Ponch raised his eyebrows. This was getting quite interesting.

"He and his buddies got put in jail for awhile...back when you and I were both seniors. Back in the day they got put away for about ten years...nowadays, they'd be put away for so much more...finally, they were released, and he inherited my grandmother's ranch in Montana..."

"What ranch?"

"The Black Mountain Lion."

Suddenly, in Ponch's mind, the fog was lifting, making everything clear.

"He and I inherited a fortune from her when she died of old age, shortly before my mother died, and we've had it made ever since. I treated myself and others close to me to a lot of luxury, top of the line. My best friend, Naomi Halliwell, got a Givenchy ensemble for her birthday, just one, you know? But very special to her..."

The same one she died in, thought Ponch.

"I even spent it on a Jaguar, a sexy black one. 1977 model."

The one that went up in flames at Jon's apartment, he thought.

"I...was... heartbroken when Naomi died."

I'll bet you were, thought Ponch sarcastically.

"My cousin, Mark, got upset at all these things my father did years ago," Melanie continued, changing the subject, "he was upset until the night he died on a sidewalk somewhere...two years ago, he'd stolen a red Honda dirtbike from my father's ranch and took it to California, where he's lived all his life. He went speeding all over the road with it for several years, to deliberately make Calfornia Highway Patrol follow him. Then he'd manage to lose them. It was the same thing, you know? Follow him, he loses them, follow him, he loses them. That kind of thing. I don't know how he managed to do it."

And then that pattern took a turn for the worse, thought Ponch, until O'Brien's demise, then it burned.

"What have you been doing around California yourself, lately?" said Ponch with a hint of slyness in his smile.

"Oh, I've been collecting antiques," she suddenly said, with enthusiasm, and without thinking. "I've been collecting medieval daggers. I've always liked medieval things, they remind me of...well, chivalry, and the idea of knights protecting their country and the lady they love from evil. I found this medieval dagger...you know, at Olsen's Antiques? Wouldn't you know it, he was...well, you know..."

"Would you excuse me for a minute, sweetheart? I have to use the telephone."

"Sure."

Ponch slipped away to the nearby pay phone to call Jon.

"Hello?"

"Jon, it's me. I've chitchatted with Melanie here in the Kabuki House about the CHP murders...you're gonna love what you hear. There's plenty more where it came from. I got a call from Getraer a few minutes before I came down here, he's got a 1955 LAPD report that's going to blow your mind. Meet us at the restaurant. The police report has got a lot to do with the killings."

"Are you serious, Ponch?"

"Just meet me and Getraer here. He's coming in one hour. I have a feeling I'm not going to see Melanie much after this call..."

"Okay, Ponch, I'll meet you there in about an hour and a half, okay?"

"Okay. See you then. Bye."

When Ponch returned to the table, he knew Melanie would ditch him, and he was right.

Not for long, princesa, he thought to himself with a knowing grin. 


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Jon met Getraer and Ponch at the Kabuki House.

They remembered what they learned from Grossman about something terrible that happened, supposedly, in 1955, about the mysterious Funny Face getting sexually assaulted by California Highway Patrol officers, and how Getraer heard something similar moments before John Cannon's death. Mixing that with the information Melanie Mitchell had given Ponch, he was sure to find plenty of the answers to the questions that hung in the California air, as a matter of fact, he and his partner would find all of them, he was determined, and stop Funny Face and her gang once and for all.

"Be prepared," said Getraer in a serious tone, pulling out an LAPD file folder, "this isn't going to be pretty." 

The three men gazed at the police report. Five CHP officers, in 1955, had put a nine-year-old girl was put through harrowing physical abuse and unspeakable sexual molestation. The girl's father, CHP Officer Robert Mitchell of Central, had led the pack into doing so since she was two. She had gone through a wide array of " physical and sexual atrocities unspeakable" by the hands of he and his four corrupt friends. They were discharged by California Highway Patrol and put in jail.

The girl's name was Melanie Mitchell. When her cousin, Mark, also 9 at the time, came over, he, too was abused and molested in the same matter.

Ponch later told them how, at Poly High, Melanie was exceptional at photography, carving wood, and chemistry. He mentioned what he had heard about her grandmother dying years later and leaving her and her father the Black Moutnain Lion Ranch and the fortune that went with it, which was the reason her family had temporarily moved to Montana before she was old enough to live back in California on her own.

The previous night before Getraer, Jon, and Ponch met at the restaurant, Grossman told Getraer over the phone about how he had heard (in a news follow up to the recent fires) that the fires may have been linked to the CHP murders somehow, forJoe Keyes did not appreciate LAPD or CHP for not paying him enough for the keys he made for patrol cars, filing cabinets, and the like. Olsen, of course, seemed to know nothing behind the CHP murders; he had, of course, met his demise before he could be questioned about the murder and whether or not he had anything to do with it. All three agreed, chances were, he had no clue about what was behind the scenes. Getraer told about how, the next morning, a female CHP clerk came to his house in disguise, and told how she saw a mysterious CHP Officer pass by her out of the supply room. Taking the situation for granted, believing her to be an officer and nothing more, the clerk did see how the officer was trying to hide her gloves and hands, both bleeding considerably. The clerk, who was too far away to hear Jenkins' screaming at the time, came down a hall as the officer, whose nameplate read Mitchell, passed her by.

She only found one thing strange--a scarf tied on the murderer's head. As she was headed where first aid was, the clerk thought she was just another officer who got into a minor accident on the road, perhaps a motorcycle cop. She feared for her life after it hit her that she was wrong; Getraer saw to it that LAPD gave her solid protection later. Cannon, Milner and Monaghan had no criminal records or even a traffic violation beforehand, yet they, too shared similar stories of sexual and physical abuse done to them as children.

The three men discussed how Mark Mitchell biked around on his Honda dirtbike, luring CHP Officers into a chase.

And how Funny Face, inevitably, was mistaken for another officer after she and her thugs smuggled Richardson's body inside Central, the thugs obviously getting spare uniforms from Funny Face, who had probably broken in before to steal them and give them to the thugs before, though that had yet to be confirmed. How did they leave Richardson's place free of signs of struggle? Ponch mentioned that Melanie herself was a neat freak... but no fingers could be pointed as of yet.

Getraer said the clerk also noticed Funny Face dragging in a black velvet sack slightly larger than the size of a garbage bag, but as she was new to CHP Central, was not one to report it. She dismissed it as a practical joke, later wishing, of course, that she hadn't.

Then there was the Bunton murder...the Givenchy clothing...Jon's brush with death...

Ponch smiled. Finally, the fog was lifted at last, and things became clear.

Meanwhile, Melanie Mitchell was at Los Angeles International Airport, boarding a plane for Billings, Montana.

I'll have to return later, she thought to herself. 


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

The next day after that, when Jon and Ponch had a day off, Ponch called Jon at his apartment.

"Jon?"

"Yeah, Ponch, what's up?"

"Just tried Melanie's townhouse. She's flown the coop. Don't know where she's gone. Left without a trace."

"Nice, clean break, huh?"

"Not for long. LAPD's detectives, they're looking for any records of her going to the airport. They'll notify police in any state, or even any country she goes to, if she goes anywhere."

"We've got to get more info out of her. No matter what these people do, they're not going to extract any answers out of her the way you can, Ponch. You're the best at that."

"Well, you know ol' Funny Face is gonna eventually come back after you, right? You were her next prey. She said so herself."

"Maybe we can work out something with LAPD... if we can catch her at just the right place, at the right time, somehow..." 

Two months had fully passed since then. Though somehow there had been no brutal, mysterious killings of CHP officers nor anyone else during the entire two months, all officers of California Highway Patrol and Los Angeles Police Department were always alert for anything that might lead them to Funny Face, and Ponch and Jon were no exception. Life went on as usual, or at least, with everyone involved on their toes more than usual. Then, finally, an LAPD detective followed someone to a pay phone one day and listened in, while undercover, to a conversation about Jon...

"I don't care. I don't care anymore. Officer Baker's next. This time it's going to be executed in a simple manner. Tomorrow night, at 11:00 pm. His apartment. I want the best kitchen knife you've got. This time the Chippie murders will be as his, nice and easy."

He relayed the message to LAPD, who relayed the message to Getraer...

The night finally came. Funny Face emerged at Raintree, dressed in a simple black leotard, and an executioner's hood. She climbed up the balconies as quick and sly as a cat, until she reached Jon's balcony, as he lay in bed asleep. She used a glass carver to carve a hole big enough so she could enter through his sliding glass door without a sound. She crept into his bedroom, and saw his sleeping figure in front of her. She crept over to the side of his bed, aiming the kitchen knife at his throat. She slowly raised the blade, intending simply to pierce his windpipe. Her arm fell downwards as would a guillotine blade...

He caught the arm before the knife pierced him. "Not this time, Melanie!" he snapped in a serious tone.

Using the restraint tactics he was taught at the CHP Academy, he wrestled a squealing Funny Face to the ground and pinned her arms behind her back.

A nearby light switched on. There stood Ponch, Baricza, Grossman, Fritz and Getraer in full uniform. "Not one move, Melanie!" Getraer snapped. Baricza placed handcuffs on the figure. "Oh, yes!" said Ponch angrily, "We know exactly who you are and how the whole situation happened now, Funny Face. Or should I say," he said, yanking off her hood, "Melanie Mitchell!"

"Leave me alone!" Melanie screamed with tears in her eyes. "You're all crazy! I don't know what you're talking about..."

"Well," said Getraer in a flat serious tone as he strode over to her, "Let us refresh your memory." 


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

"Why don't you tell us how your dear little cousin stole a 1976 Honda dirtbike from your father's ranch, The Black Mountain Lion, in Montana, so he could eventually speed down O'Brien's beat one day and then lure her into the hills, behind some foliage there, where you eventually chloroformed her and stripped her of her holster?" Jon asked Melanie, trying to control his anger.

"That was pretty stupid of you to leave the chloroform rag at her car," said Ponch with equal anger. "Why'd you do that?"

"Most likely returning to the car to make sure she didn't leave anything behind," said Grossman, "then dropping the rag at the car by mistake."

"Then dragging O'Brien to that dilapidated barn in the hills, torturing and abusing her for two long months before you finally beat the life out of her with her own baton!" hissed Baricza.

"I don't know what you're talking about!" a tearful Melanie screamed hysterically.

"Oh, we do, Melanie," said Fritz. "One can easily assume O'Brien's body was going to be burned by Orly somewhere hidden from sight, from the gasoline we found in his car after he and O'Brien both died."

"But it was pretty stupid of you to burn that Honda dirtbike in plain sight where authorities could see it!" added Grossman with increasing anger.

"Yeah, and if only Richardson could have known what a neat freak you are, Melanie!" hissed a very angry Ponch. "Which is why you left no sign of a struggle at his apartment; you persuaded a cop-hating Joe Keyes to make a duplicate key for so you could break in to it! Obviously, you laid the rag down on the bed after you finally manage to chloroform him, along with some Old Spice from your wrist, put there so no one would know the killer was a woman! Oh, but it was pretty stupid of you and your accomplices to toast his death when you shot him in his bathtub, with Korbel Extra Dry Champagne, strawberries and Shiraz wine from Beringer!"

"You're crazy!" Melanie continued screaming hysterically. "You're absolutely crazy!"

"It gets worse," Jon continued. "Great disguise you used of your father's when you infiltrated Central to put Richardson in the men's bathroom, then infiltrating Central again to kill Jenkins after he found you out in your hideout at an abandoned gas station!"

"It's not true, I tell you! It's not true! You're lying!"

"Shame on your best friend Naomi Halliwell," Ponch added with sarcasm "after she ratted you out for killing Officer Bunton with a medieval dagger you bought at Olsen's Antique Shop, finally managing to do so at the May Company, where you were dumb enough to leave a shopping bag full of an ensemble by Givenchy!"

"A designer you wore," added Jon, "when you kidnapped me, took me to the K-Mart whose doors Joe Keyes also made keys for, and almost butchered me with an electric knife!"

"A designer you spent your money on--along with a 1977 Jag you later burned at Jon's apartment complex-- when your grandma died and left the ranch to you and your father, whose deplorable actions against you years ago you chose to let completely eat away at your heart, soul, spirit, and mind until it drove you to sheer insanity, to kill anyone with a CHP uniform, or anyone else, like your cousin, or Terry Monaghan, or Randy Milner, if they screwed up or ratted on you, burning evidence in the process!" added Grossman passionately.

"Then sneak away to Montana for awhile, to burn up your father's ranch, according to the evening news report I was watching a month after you left," added Getraer.

"No stopping you from making Baker next on your list," concluded Fritz with a sly smile, "or at least, you didn't think so."

Getraer read a sobbing Melanie her rights. 


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

It has often been said, all suspects are innocent until proven guilty in a court of law. Something, of course, Jon and Ponch would be a part of as they testified against Melanie Mitchell and her committed atrocities.

She would never see one single day in freedom for another 50 years. She was found guilty of several counts of arson, one count of attempted murder, and several more of first degree murder, her last being the citizen she made a deal with about the big kitchen knife she planned to use against Jon, in a second attempt to do him in.

After Getraer had told his most relieved division about Melanie's defeat in briefing two days later, Jon and Ponch walked down the hall and contemplated...

"Melanie...when you admit it, you'll find she used to be a good person, a good heart, a good soul, a good mind, a good spirit, I mean, I can't believe that anyone is born a bad person. There's no excuse for what she did, Ponch, but somehow, I think she was inspired and influenced by her father. Little by little his every evil ate away at her heart, her soul, you name it, until it drove her to insanity. She was just a kid when she was abused. She was trained to believe that it was okay, what happened to her, or worse, probably to believe the lie that she supposedly deserved it. I mean, what are you supposed to feel for these victims who turn innocent people into...well..victims?"

"No pity, that's for sure. It's true, you can be influenced by an abusive parent...but only if you let it happen. No matter how horrible the atrocity committed against you was --even if it was a million of them and a ton of unfairness to boot-- something inside you has to tell your heart, soul and spirit, as well as your mind, to completely let go of all of it, every last bit, and do something more, forgive the person who hurt you, and move on with your life. If you don't, like Melanie didn't, you end up like her. You don't neccessarily become mentally ill, like she was, and kill left and right, but you do die spiritually, like she did, instead of physically. And that's the worst kind of death anyone can experience, Jon. To forgive doesn't mean tolertaing the person's behavior. It means pardoning them for their sins, so to speak. It's simple. You either get over it, or you don't."

Full of wondrous revelations they had never before experienced, and strengtrh to become better people in the sense that they, too, would let go of the terrors they'd experienced in the past and forgive all who had committed them (even though sometimes, in some senses, justice did have to be served), Jon and Ponch once again mounted their Kawasaki motorcycles and sailed into a beautiful California day. 


End file.
